


day 289

by eggstasy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-typical language, Church is only present thru journal entries, Gen, Post-Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6139507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reds don’t see his face until after Sidewinder, until after Church (Epsilon) is gone, disappeared into a broken memory unit for his broken girlfriend that he made himself like a FUCKSTICK because dredging up a past that hurts and isn’t even real is apparently more important to him than sticking around with his so-called friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	day 289

The Reds don’t see his face until after Sidewinder, until after Church (Epsilon) is gone, disappeared into a broken memory unit for his broken girlfriend that he made himself like a _fuckstick_ because dredging up a past that hurts and isn’t even real is apparently more important to him than sticking around with his so-called friends.

It doesn’t matter, Tucker tells himself as they bounce along in their stolen Warthog. He wasn’t really Church anyway. Church would never tell Caboose that _Tucker_ would screw up remembering him right.

After the biting cold of Sidewinder the Reds and Blues rendezvous at a nearby abandoned simulation outpost, some shitty fucked-up place called High Ground that Caboose and Washington say they found Church in, _the_ Church, or ‘the Alpha’ as Wash insists on calling him. Things are pretty tense; Simmons won’t go near Washington, Washington won’t go near anybody else with the exception of Caboose, who he can’t shake no matter how he tries. Once Tucker is relatively sure that Washington won’t snap and murder Caboose he leaves to explore, to find…something, anything that shows Church once lived here for over a year.

He finds sniper round shells, up in the nest at the top of the wall. Probably taking potshots at squirrels or something. Probably missing terribly each time. He finds a pile of rations that Grif has already dug into. They must have kept shipping them to keep up the lie that Church was at least  _once_ human. Tucker grabs a ration bar that doesn’t look horribly expired for himself.

He finds fifteen tally marks on the wall in chalk followed immediately by the words _fuck this_ in Church’s angry scrawl and Tucker takes a picture because- he doesn’t know. Because there’s nothing else. No personal effects, no pictures, nothing, fucking _nothing-_

“Hey.”

Tucker jerks and spins around, rifle up and heart pounding.

Grif’s hands shoot up. “Fuck! What the hell, what’s wrong with you?!”

Tucker lowers his rifle. Living in an _actual_ combat situation for a year and then proceeding immediately into two gigantic fuck-you fights with the most brutal Freelancers makes a guy jumpy, go figure. “Uh, how about we have a twitchy proto-psychotic with us who was totally trying to kill everybody a little while ago? How about that?”

“ _You’re_ the one who voted we keep him around.”

“Yeah well. Shut up.” Tucker stows his rifle and turns back to the tally marks on the wall. “What d’you want?”

“I was _going_ to tell you Simmons found something you might wanna see, but now maybe I don’t want to since you’re being such an asshole.” Grif shoulders past Tucker in the direction of the stacked MREs. “So go find him yourself.”

Tucker goes and finds Simmons himself. “Hey Grif sent me-”

“Jesus!” Simmons fumbles for his own rifle and drops it.

“Smooth.” Tucker saunters into the alcove. He almost has to stoop to get past the door, but at least the room opens up. “What’d you find?”

Simmons casts Tucker a look that is probably withering beneath that helmet. Or what he thinks is withering- no, it’s likely withering, Simmons has a pretty nasty mean streak. “Logs.”

“Wow, you found some trees.”

“ _Journal entries_ you idiot.” Simmons gestures to a beaten and weathered tablet on the rock slab before them. “It’s all text, but they’re Church’s. Him bitching, mostly.”

Tucker picks it up slowly, rubs the dust off the corners.

Simmons sniffs, waiting for a thank you that doesn’t come before he turns away. “I’m, uh. I’m gonna go find Sarge.” He doesn’t get a farewell either as he practically crawls out through the low door.

Somewhere in the distance Caboose is yelling about something, voice carrying through the stone and echoing down the long tunnels. The base is barely big enough for a squadron; the six of them fill it up in a way it’s probably never been before. Church lived here in the emptiness of it for over a year, by himself, with nothing to do and nobody to talk to.

Tucker sits down on the slab and boots up the tablet.

 

**Day 1.  First day in this stinking fuckhole and it’s still better than the last fuckhole I came from. Shit’s falling apart. I’m apparently supposed to fix it up in case I get attacked, but there’s fucking nobody else here, not even any other Reds. Guess that hole’s staying right where it is.**

**-**

**Day 5. This is honestly the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to me. Finally, some fucking PEACE.**

**Nobody else has gotten reassigned here and every time I call Command to ask what’s up, they just put me on hold. It’s not even Vic on there anymore. Maybe Tucker’s right; maybe this is all bullshit.**

**Fine by me. Not like I got anything better to do.**

**-**

**Day 22. Vacation’s getting old. The quiet’s nice, don’t get me wrong. Nobody’s getting fucking shot, or shooting ME or getting pregnant or run over by a tank. Nobody’s shoving fucking bombs into people, the Reds aren’t wandering over to play with their dicks in my front yard, and Caboose isn’t here. Goddamn just that last one is reason enough to stay right where I am. Might be nice to have someone to talk to, but I’m sure the second I fucking TALK to them I’ll take it all back.**

 

The radio crackles in Tucker’s helmet as Caboose shows Washington which channel is their private channel, then their private _private_ channel and then the Reds’ private channel, then the Reds' private _private_ channel and when Sarge chimes in with some outrage Tucker reaches up and pops the seals on his helmet to set it aside. The fresh air is nice anyway.

The next few entries are just Church bitching, as Simmons had said, complaining about the crappy food he can’t eat, complaining about the weather that’s always the same, complaining about the state of the base he’s been assigned to, just bitch, bitch, bitch. Tucker can almost hear his voice.

 

**Day 94. DOOONT STOP**

**BELIEEEEEVAn**

**HOLD ON TO THAT FEEELAYYYAYAAAN**

 

Tucker snorts and claps a hand to his mouth.

 

**Day 115. MotherfuCKING SQUIRELLS FUCKING STEALING MY SHIT**

**I DON’T GIVE A FUCK IF I DON’T NEED IT YOU ASSTONGUING CUNT SLICKS THOSE’RE MY FUCKING SUPPLIES**

 

“Jesus Christ, Church,” Tucker murmurs, shaking his head. That explains the casings everywhere. Loser really _had_ been shooting at squirrels, like some kind of backwater hick.

 

**Day 139. I wish Tucker was here.**

 

The air goes still as Tucker sucks in a breath.

 

**I don’t give a fuck what it makes me sound like. I can’t handle all this fucking QUIET. The peace is fine, good riddance Caboose but I gotta have somebody to talk to or I’m gonna fucking Tom Hanks this shit and start drawing faces on boulders. Tucker’s disgusting and annoying but at least he’s good for conversation. At least he’d get all of this shit. Maybe I should go find him. I mean, I’d be AWOL but it’s not like there’s a war going on anyway. This shithole isn’t exactly a strategic location, I’m pretty sure we can risk losing it to the enemy.**

**Whoever the enemy is supposed to be.**

**-**

**Day 152. I’m starting to lose it. I’m having this fucked up dream- or hallucination, whatever ghosts have when they clock out.**

**I’m on a ship, like a frigate or something instead of a dropship. I’m stuck in this room and I can’t get out, and I can hear people screaming outside. Screaming for ME.**

**I can’t**

**figure out if they want my help or if they want me dead.**

**-**

**Day 190.**

**I gotta get outta here.**

 

Tucker swipes to the next entry, heart pounding.

 

**Day 218. Well exploring was a fucking waste of time, but at least it got me out of here for a while. Don’t think I’m going to find much of anything without a car or bike or something. I mean sure, I don’t have to worry about starving to death or anything but Christ, who wants to walk for days and days? I don’t even know if I’ll find anything. I don’t even know what direction to go in.**

**-**

**Day 245. Supplies stopped coming a few weeks ago. Guess they forgot I was here.**

**Makes sense. Sometimes I forget I’m here too.**

**-**

**Day 256. I’m DEFINITELY losing it.**

**I think I’m seeing things.**

**Can a ghost even go nuts? There’s no brain chemicals and shit anymore. I’m just sitting here every fucking day, watching the fucking road, waiting for someone to show up. I dunno what I’ll do if someone does. Kill them probably.**

 

“Jesus _Christ_ Church,” Tucker whispers, bowing his head and touching the tablet to his forehead.

Fucking idiot. There’s no way a super computer could be so damn _stupid_ that he couldn’t see all the signs. Tucker’s pretty sure Church knew something was wrong, knew something was up with the ghost thing. Church _wasn’t_ stupid; he was just stubborn and convinced and probably, like Washington had told them, really incredibly fucking damaged.

It’s not hard to figure out your bunkmate is a computer when he never sleeps, when he doesn’t eat, doesn’t shit. Whoever shoved him into that android body must’ve fucked with his head to make him think he was a real boy, which is probably the worst thing about this whole mess.

No- the worst thing is that Church fucking _died_ before they could even begin to figure any of it out.

 

**Day 287.**

**whats ha epning to m**

**t e** **x**

**-**

**Day 288.**

**A** **L L** **I S** **O** **N**

**-**

**Day 289.**

**Ȃ̜̱̺̮̟̟̺̜̣͒ͣͬ͋̈ ͋̓ͤ̒ͦ͊ͪ͏̯͉̝̻̯̼̺̖L͎̠̘͎͎̥ͨ̋͗̂̕ ̨͕̞̗̰̟͈ͩ͋̕Ľ̬̖͍̱͕̎ͤ̽̈́̊̋ ̻̻̰̰͚͊͗͆̆̋͜Ï͕͓̗͓̪̖̰̞̹͑͋̅͡ ̱̱͕͔̳͔͎̝͓ͤͣ̔͛ͧ́̕͡S̞̯͕͂̇̄̀͟ ̭̫̭͚͚̙̓̓ͪͣ̔ͦ͑O̶̦̖͈͗̌ ̌͂͊͐҉̩̲̺̼͉̫͖͓N̡̨̙̪̓̓̉̆**

**-**

**MemDump <!> obstructionType = catastrophic failure**

**.subclass(object.Mem)**

**.method(hard)**

**.intercept(Repair.node1.34.3)**

**.load(PrivateLeonardChurch.value( ), replace.(Repair.node.1.34.3) )**

**initializing. . .**

**-**

**Day 293.**

**what the fuck was that**

**-**

**Day 365.**

**Happy Anniversary, me.**

**Everybody on this fucking planet can go eat a dick.**

 

“What’s going on in here- oh.” Grif hangs back by the door, staring at Tucker curled over the datapad. “Wow, awkward. Uhhh, should I be going?”

“No.” Tucker sniffs; there aren’t tears, not yet, but his stupid face leaks like crazy at even the hint of them. Nose always runs first and foremost. “Allergies. Fucking dust is kicking my ass.”

“Okay.” Grif doesn’t sound convinced but he probably doesn’t want to hear about it anyway, for which Tucker is grateful.

His best friend –his _dead_ best friend, who is a computer, who was so fucking broken that it was a miracle he could function at all- slowly went insane here, by himself, before going on one last adventure and then _dying._ Nobody thought to come get Tucker. Nobody thought he could help, and now the last memory he has of this unapologetic prick is the image of him giving Tucker’s transport ship the finger and these stupid goddamn logs.

“You are all such fucking assholes,” Tucker grinds out through his teeth, glaring down at the tablet.

Grif shrugs. “Not gonna hear any argument from me.”

“Why didn’t any of you _tell_ me? Jesus Christ.”

“We were sort of busy being dragged along by a fucking crazy asshole Freelancer. You might be familiar with the process? Doesn’t involve a whole lot of pitstops for phone calls.” Grif leans against the wall, folding his arms. “Besides, I’m pretty sure you have your own dumbass teammates to blame for that. Neither of them called you either.”

It’s true. Caboose, fine, whatever, that moron probably couldn’t even use a phone if he tried, and besides that he hated Tucker. But Church? Why wouldn’t Church have tried to find him? Tried to at least call him for help? He knows Tucker would’ve- okay, he would’ve complained the entire time but he would’ve _come._

If he hadn’t been busy.

Tucker stands up as Simmons pokes his head in the door and startles. “Holy shit! You really _are_ black!”

If he didn’t want to download the logs, Tucker probably would’ve thrown the tablet at his face. “Are you serious? You knew that.”

“But like, you’re _really_ black!”

“What the fuck does ‘really black’ look like?”

Simmons seems to finally understand he’s said something stupid by the way he suddenly straightens and clears his throat. He almost smacks his head on the doorway and Tucker wishes he’d just gone ahead and done it, just knocked himself out. “I didn’t _mean_ anything by it.”

“Oh my god Simmons, shut up,” Grif groans. “I promise, there’s no liquor stores nearby for Tucker to knock over, _you’re safe._ ”

“What the four time Oscar nominee Helen Mirren is goin’ on in here!” Sarge roars from behind Simmons, startling him into _actually_ hitting his head on the top of the doorway. “Trading beauty tips? What the-!” He spots Tucker. “And with the enemy! What's wrong with you two?”

“Sarge,” Tucker groans, “seriously? _Still?_ ”

“Don't,” Grif sighs. “He'll give another speech. I'm full up.”

Simmons recovers from his concussion just in time. “That's the only time we'll ever hear 'I'm full' come out of your mouth.”

The Reds bicker in the doorway, with Sarge threatening Grif no less than four more times and Simmons adding that sure, yes of course, he would absolutely help Sarge kill Grif even if there wasn't a promotion in it for him (but that would be nice, just saying, it would be a good incentive to try harder). Tucker tunes them out and returns his attention to the tablet for the final entry in Church's logs.

 

**Day 400. I'm not using this thing anymore. Just fucking depressing me at this point.**

**I figure I'm probably here to stay until I decide to leave. That kind of makes it easier; I can kick back here and be the fuck away from that fucking rookie, those fucking Reds, everybody who ever gave me grief. And in the inevitable event that I actually ever want to TALK to another cockbite from that miserable canyon ever again?**

**I know where to find one of them, anyway.**

**I'll give it another year.**

 

Grif flops down heavily onto the slab next to Tucker, plucking off his own helmet. He squints at Tucker with one eye so dark it's almost black, the other a Dutch-Irish hazel, scratching at the stubble on his second chin before fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He taps one out, rolling it between his fingers to unkink the filter before poking it between his teeth. After a moment of hesitation he reluctantly holds the pack out to Tucker.

Tucker shakes his head.

Grif shrugs and lights his own. “Ahh,” he breathes out, smoke drifting up toward the ceiling.

“Grif! How many times am I gonna tell you, stop smoking with my lung!”

“Probably gonna be saying it forever because it's _my_ lung now dickhead. Return policy's only good for thirty days after invasive surgery.”

“Fuck you, I saved your life.”

“Much to the disappointment of his commanding officer,” Sarge huffs.

“Sir, you were the one who suggested the surgery in the first place.”

“You were always going to be a cyborg, Simmons! I just so happened to mistake Private Grif for a dumpster when it came time to dispose of all your so-called 'vital' organs.”

“Ah. Understandable, sir. I make that mistake every day of my life.”

“This is how they bond,” Grif says, waving his cigarette in their direction.

“That's how a lot of people bond, dude.” Tucker hates the smell of smoke but he's pretty sure if he's left to his own devices, he's going to have some problems that will both embarrass the shit out of him and also summon Caboose, who seems to have a radar for people who are crying. It's awful. He'd cried once before, when he'd thought he was alone and Caboose had stumbled upon him and despite hating Tucker with every fiber of his being, he'd taken it upon himself to cheer him up.

Tucker's ribs hurt every time he breathed for the next six weeks.

“S'how Blue Team does it too, so I don't know what you're getting all high and mighty about.”

It's how they _did._

“What,” Tucker starts but his voice is so strangled that he has to stop and cough, has to pretend like he'd just sucked in a lungful of smoke (Grif doesn't buy it, motherfucker is too goddamn sharp, Church always said so and he was right). He tries again. “What was the last thing he said? ...Church. To you guys.”

Grif takes a long drag and holds it in for a few thoughtful seconds. Over by the doorway, Simmons and Sarge construct a plan to leave Grif behind inside of an elaborate Rube Goldberg machine assembled from rocks, vines, old MREs and sniper shell casings. “I dunno, weren't you there? Blah blah, gotta get my girlfriend, blah blah I'm fucking obsessed.”

“No, not. Not that one.”

When there's no answer from his side, Tucker turns to look at Grif. Grif's staring up at the smoke sitting in the alcove of the ceiling, arm thrown over his belly, ankles crossed. Tucker remembers suddenly that the guy probably hasn't seen his own sister in a couple years. His hot, hot sister. “He said, 'If I'm lucky, I'll never fucking see you assholes ever again.'”

Tucker swallows and clutches the tablet so tight the casing creaks. “...fucking hate him.”

“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know  
> don't look at me i just do things now
> 
> ps i dont know what code is supposed to look like so if you do just pretend i was never here


End file.
